


working on the night shift

by Idday



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Firefighters, Alternate Universe - Police, Enemies to Lovers, Firefighters, Hate Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 20:45:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17988233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idday/pseuds/Idday
Summary: Whenever Connor pulls up to a scene and sees Engine No. 9 parked out front, he knows it’s going to be a long fucking day. When it comes to Jack Eichel, the police vs. fire rivalry extends far beyond an annual hockey game....Or: “You know,” Jack muses, “there’s a reason that when people say ‘fuck the firefighters,’ it’s usually prefaced with a ‘please, may I.’”





	working on the night shift

**Author's Note:**

> This fic deals with emergency response/law enforcement workers, albeit in a non-graphic way. No listed characters are seriously injured. There is mention of incidents which require some sort of emergency response including fire, car accident and overdose/medical.

Whenever Connor pulls up to a scene and sees Engine No. 9 parked out front, he knows it’s going to be a long fucking day.  

“Goddammit,” he sighs, and puts the car in park. “It couldn’t have been another company?” 

Leon doesn’t say anything back as he swings himself out of the car, but he throws Connor a cautionary look that probably means something like, _getting into a brawl with our fire department on a city street would be very bad for PR._   

Which. Is not _wrong,_  but it still doesn’t make the thought of taking a swing at the lieutenant any less appealing.  

The blaze is dying down, plumes of smoke still rising to the sky. Bystanders are gawking, but there’s no ambulance on scene. An extremely angry looking firefighter is barreling their way.  

“Lieutenant,” Connor says grudgingly. Eichel crosses his arms, bunker coat bunching at the elbows. Even under a layer of soot he looks upset, but Connor thinks that might also just be his face. It’s occasionally hard to tell. 

“It’s Captain, now,” he says. “See the red helmet?” 

“Amazing,” Connor says. “I’m surprised it still fits, what with your head getting so big.” 

Eichel ignores the jab, says. “This is still my scene.” 

“This is an arson scene,” Connor says, “requiring investigation. And we’re the detectives. So the way I see it, it's our scene, now. Thanks as always for your excellent hose-handling.” 

“See the flames?” Eichel says, “See how the building’s still on fire? If you wanna walk in there, be my guest. Otherwise, until we do a proper walkdown and clear the scene, it’s mine. You’re welcome to wait. There’s a donut shot just across the street, there.” 

“I’m going to start taking witness statements,” Leon says, before things can escalate. “Hi, Jack. Congratulations on your promotion.” 

“Thanks, Leon,” Eichel says, and relaxes minutely. “Look, McDavid. We’re doing our best to get this thing wrapped up. You think we wanna be here all night? Just give me an hour.” 

“No, I think you want to go back to the firehouse and sleep for the rest of your shift while the rest of us get some work done,” Connor says, but he can’t do anything but concede, really. “Just try to avoid trampling my evidence while you’re clomping around in there.” 

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” Eichel scoffs. “Why keep my men safe when I could preserve your evidence?” 

“You might get off my scene faster if you stopped running your mouth and kept it shut,” Connor snaps. He can see the moment when it’s about to happen—the way Eichel smirks at him, corner of his mouth curving up sharply. The way he leans into Connor’s space. The scent of smoke on him is so heavy that Connor can’t help but cough.  

“You weren’t saying that last night,” he says softly, “when you had your cock in it.” 

Connor coughs again, half-shocked that Eichel would say that on scene. Then again, he’s half-not-shocked-at-all.  

“I’ll let you know when the scene is clear, Officer,” Eichel says, throwing the words over his shoulder as he swaggers back towards the rubble.  

“It’s Detective,” Connor calls, but he doesn’t know if Eichel can even hear him from across the lot.  

… 

“What exactly is your problem with him, anyway?” Leon asks, as they’re driving back to the precinct. “I think he’s funny.” 

Connor sighs, heavily, and flicks on the blinker. “He’s just... annoying,” Connor says.  

“I find a lot of people annoying,” Leon says. “I don’t get in viral brawls with them at the annual Police vs. Fire hockey game.” 

“It wasn’t a brawl,” Connor protests. 

“Only because you only got two punches in before he took you down,” Leon says, and Connor reaches across the car to pummel him in the thigh. “Ow! Okay, whatever. Forget I asked.” 

“We’re fine,” Connor says robotically. “We’re professionals. We’re fine.” 

… 

“Well, hello, Officer,” Jack says when he opens his door, hip propped against the jamb.  

“It’s detective,” Connor says, a kneejerk response. It’s what Jack wanted, because he grins bigger and stands back, swings the door open.  

“I’m aware of that,” he says.  

“You wanna talk about work?” Connor says, irritated suddenly, which is pretty typical when he’s around Jack, even by choice, “Or you want me to suck you off.” 

“Oh, I for sure want you to suck my cock,” Jack says, letting the front door slam behind them. He’s so big, and it’s even more obvious when he boxes Connor in like this. “But I’m feeling a little hurt. I got a big promotion and you don’t even tell me congrats?” 

“I did,” Connor protests, even though thinking back, he’s not sure it’s true. Jack’s pouting at him and it looks playful, but there’s also a hint of something there. Hurt, maybe. Connor’s jaw works. They don’t really have that sort of relationship—he doesn’t know what to say. “Congratulations, Jack,” he says finally. “I’m happy for you. That’s... I know you wanted that for a while.” 

“We gonna call it a congratulatory blowie, then?” Jack says, grinning again.  

Connor rolls his eyes. “Call it whatever you want,” he says, “just shut the fuck up while it’s happening.” 

… 

It’s a narcotics call, which is never good news. There’s also an engine parked out front and an ambulance screaming in behind them, which makes it worse news.  

They stand back to let the paramedics pound up the stairs in front of them. Someone up there is screaming, or maybe wailing.  

Connor and Leon stand back against the wall when they enter the room. They’re in plain clothes, but even so, introducing police into a situation like this rarely goes well. Sam is talking calmly to a half-hysterical woman in the corner, Eichel on his knees next to a prone figure, talking rapidly to the ambulance paramedics as they prepare to haul the victim up onto a stretcher. He meets Connor’s eyes over their heads, and his expression hardens.  

“Listen,” he says, stalking over, once they’ve wheeled the man off down the stairs. Sam is still with the woman, clearly coaxing her into taking the ambulance with her boyfriend.  

“Is your evidence obliteration squad finished here?” Connor cuts him off. The room is a disaster, but he can see at least two syringes from here. He’s willing to bet that at least one of them has Jack fucking Eichel’s greasy fingerprints all over it. 

Eichel’s mouth twists up. “Next time I’m giving chest compressions to an overdose victim,” he says, sour, “I’ll be sure to worry about your fucking carpet fibers.” 

“Hey,” Connor says, and this time, it’s Jack who interrupts.  

“I get that our priorities are different. I’m worried about saving a life, and you’re worried about putting people behind bars.” 

“Hey,” Leon says, warning, and Eichel cuts his eyes over at him, deflates. 

“Look, whatever,” he says. Sam has finally managed to escort the woman out of the room, and Eichel runs his hand over the back of his head in a familiar, irritated gesture. “Yeah, we’re done here. All yours.” 

“Let’s secure the scene,” Connor says, once Eichel’s finally gathered his kit and stomped down the stairs. 

“Fine,” Leon says, and pulls gloves out of his pocket. “Listen, have you two thought about hate-fucking? I think it might be really good for the rest of us.” 

Connor bites his tongue and barely manages to avoid swearing. “No,” he says. “We have not thought about hate-fucking.” 

… 

“What, are you tired?” Jack says, slowing his hips. “I’m doing all the work here.” 

“Yeah,” Connor lies. He is tired, kind of, but mostly he’s distracted, thinking back to Jack at the scene today, snapping at him like that, and then flashing back to this version of Jack, the one riding him with dirty little thrusts. “Worked a hard shift today. Not like you would know what that’s like, responding to one and a half calls a day in between all the ping-pong and weightlifting.” 

Jack doesn’t scowl like Connor expected him to, drops his head and laughs a little breathlessly instead. “You’re really gonna complain about me working out when you enjoy the results so much?” 

Connor can feel himself flushing, but he reaches out to touch where Jack’s abs are bunching, anyway. “Whatever,” he says, and reaches for Jack’s wrist. “Just... come here.” 

“Oh, are we kissing now?” Jack says, “Is that a thing that we do?” 

“I guess,” Connor says, and Jack scoffs at him, but he opens his mouth against Connor’s, anyway, licks past his lips in a way that makes something hot jolt through Connor’s body.  

“You gonna come?” Jack asks, pulling back and mouthing at his neck.  

“Yeah, Connor breathes, “you?” 

“Mmm,” Jack says, “after. Just. Do it, already.” 

“Fuck,” Connor bites out, and Jack pushes back up on his arms to ride him through it, grinning when Connor has to slap his hip to make him stop, oversensitive.  

Jack’s cock is still hard, dripping and red, but he bats Connor’s hand away when he reaches for it. “Stop,” he says and, kneels up to pull himself off Connor. “Can I come on you?” 

“I guess,” Connor says, rolling his eyes. 

“Yeah, you hate this so much,” Jack says, breathlessness ruining the sarcasm, and Connor hums, even though he does like it, watching Jack work himself, muscles bunching and face intent.  

“Come on,” Connor coaxes, reaching around to palm at Jack’s ass. “Want me to finger you?” 

“No,” Jack snaps, and he’s making those high, breathy sounds now, the ones that mean he’s about to come. He closes his eyes, thrusting into his own fist, and Connor watches his face as it happens, the way he screws his eyes up, mouth falling open. Connor’s chest is striped, warm and sticky, and Jack rolls off him without even opening his eyes, still breathing hard.  

“Gross,” Connor says lightly, after a moment. “I’m gonna get a washcloth.” 

Jack doesn’t say anything, so Connor rolls out of bed, pads over to the bathroom. Jack keeps his house tidy, which Connor either attributes to him having so much fucking time off between shifts or to him just being a little bit of a clean freak, depending on how charitable he’s feeling on the day. The washcloths are always folded neatly in the same drawer, sorted by color. He has to wait for the water to warm up, examines himself idly in the mirror. He has a hickey low on his neck that he didn’t feel when Jack must have sucked it there, and his hair is standing on end, flattened in the back where his head was pressed into the pillow. 

Jack’s still laying in the same spot on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. His face is tight, somehow, like he’s thinking, or maybe upset. Connor thinks for a second about dropping the wet washcloth on his face, but he just holds it out and says, “here.” 

Jack startles, then says, “thanks,” both of which are so uncharacteristic that Connor blurts out, “are you okay?” 

“What?” Jack says, and then immediately, “yeah, of course. I’m gonna make some food. You hungry?” 

“Uh,” Connor says. Usually, Jack can’t wait to kick him out and Connor can’t wait to leave. They’re barely fuck buddies, because they don’t like each other enough to be considered ‘buddies.’ “I was thinking I would probably go.” 

“Whatever,” Jack says, and rolls out of bed. Even his sweatpants are folded in drawers, and he doesn’t bother to put a shirt on. “I’m just saying. I’m gonna cook something, so if you want to eat that’s fine. I don‘t care.” 

“Fine, I’ll stay,” Connor says, mostly just to spite him, and then immediately regrets it.  

Jack’s pulling ingredients out of his fridge for... omelets, maybe? Connor sits at his bar top, watching him clatter around. “I didn’t know you could cook,” he says finally.  

“You really have no idea what I do at work, do you,” Jack says, without turning around.  

“Rescue kittens from trees, I assume,” Connor snaps back, automatic.  

Jack does turn then, but it looks like he’s smiling a little. “It’s a tough job, but somebody has to do it,” he says. “Yeah, well, in between the kittens and the bench pressing and sleeping, I have to also feed a company of hungry firefighters. And occasionally even save a life or two.” 

“Is that guy going to be okay?” Connor says, after a beat of silence, “you know, the one who O.D.ed?”  

Jack looks at him for a long moment, like he’s trying to gauge if Connor’s serious. “I mean,” he says finally, “We just make sure they get to the hospital. We don’t usually check up on them afterwards. But he was alive when they loaded him into the ambulance, which is always a good sign.” 

“Yeah,” Connor says.  

“Listen.” Jack turns back to the stove, like he doesn’t want to watch Connor’s face. “I’m, uh. I’m sorry about what I said. Earlier. It was just... a really long fucking shift.” 

For a moment, Connor thinks about sniping something back at him, but his shoulders are tight and Connor can’t help but think about the way his face looked earlier, tense and exhausted. “It’s fine,” he says, finally. “I don’t. I’m not really a first responder anymore, you know? So sometimes I forget. What that’s like.” 

“You know,” Jack says, abruptly. “I really, really hate giving CPR. Like, most of our calls are medical and some are serious, but I would rather do almost anything else than give CPR. I fucking hate it.” 

“Because the person is like... dead?” Connor asks. It sounds so stupid, but Jack doesn’t laugh at him. He still hasn’t turned around.  

“No, because. This is going to sound awful, but. You know that when you do chest compressions right, you basically break someone’s ribcage? I hate the way that feels. I know it has to be done, but I just don’t like doing it.” 

“That doesn’t sound awful,” Connor says, as Jack pulls plates down.  

“Well, whatever,” Jack says, suddenly breezy, and serves Connor half of a perfectly folded omelet, still steaming. “We all have parts of our jobs that we don’t like, I guess. Did you know that Sam hates finding a vein for IVs?” 

“No,” Connor says, slowly. He still doesn’t really know what’s happening here—the meal, the conversation, the shifts in mood. “I guess I didn’t.” 

He feels like he should add something, but he doesn’t know what. Jack’s digging into his own omelet, anyway, so. He just eats. 

… 

Career day at McLellan Elementary has been on the precinct calendar since January, so it seems a little unwarranted that Fire Engine No. 9 is already parked outside the school when he and Leon pull up.  

“They’re second graders,” Leon says, weary, when he sees Connor’s face. “Keep your shit together.” 

“My shit is together,” Connor says calmly, and slams the driver’s side door shut. “I bet they brought the fucking dog, too.” 

“I hope you know,” Leon says, as they walk towards the building, “The Chief is talking about holding you out of the hockey game next month if you can’t keep it together with Eichel around.” 

“What?” Connor says, and stops dead in his tracks. “That’s... he can’t do that! He wouldn’t do that, I’m the best player on the team!” 

Leon rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he says, after a moment. “He actually said that your lines wouldn’t be allowed to play against each other, but the implication was there. It’s very embarrassing for the rest of us that you two can’t get along.” 

“We get along,” Connor says, and doesn’t add,  _as long as we’re naked._      

“It’s also very embarrassing for some of us that he kicked your ass last year,” Leon mutters, and starts towards the school again. 

“Who won the game, Leon?” 

“Who ended up with a bloody nose, Connor?”  

… 

They brought the fucking dog, of course. Connor’s badge goes over well, when he passes it around, and he and Leon field a few minutes of questions about arresting the bad guys, but then it’s Engine No. 9’s turn, and Eichel brings out the dog.  

He’s wearing his bunker gear, which looks very warm, although the kids clearly appreciate it. He’s also holding a leash with a panting Golden Retriever at the end of it. “This is Buff,” he says, gravely. “He helps us save lives.” 

Buff woofs, and the kids—predictably—go bonkers.  

“That’s so fucking cute,” Leon whispers. 

“Language,” Connor says, fake scandalized. Even Dr. Jones, who has personally shouted Connor down in the emergency room no less than three times, looks charmed.  

They also brought plastic firefighter hats for the kids, which, in Connor’s humble opinion, is cheating. Eichel strips out of his bunker jacket to let one of the little girls try it on, and even Leon coos loudly enough that Connor actually elbows him in the ribs.  

“What?” He says, rubbing his side. The kids are raising their hands now, wriggling with excitement.  _Mr. Jack, have you ever rescued a kitten from a tree? Mr. Jack, can you slide down a_ _firepole_ _? Mr. Jack, what is the best thing to happen to you at work?_ The answers are yes, yes, and help deliver a baby, respectively. Connor is fairly sure both that most of these kids do not know where babies come from, and also that Leon should be on his side, which he hisses back.  

“There are no sides,” Leon says. “This isn’t a hockey game. Nobody wins.” 

“Who wants to turn on the sirens?” Jack asks.  

“Goddamnit,” Connor hisses. 

… 

“Jealous?” Jack says, sidling up to him. He’s wearing a very tight blue T-shirt and his bunker pants, still, suspenders and all, and Connor looks away from him, swallows hard.  

“It’s not a game, Eichel,” he says, mouth dry. “Nobody wins.” 

“Liar,” Jack smirks, “don’t be mad that you’re losing, baby. We didn’t even bring the smoke trailer.” 

“For the record,” Connor says, “the dog was cheating.” 

Jack shrugs, careless. Over at the engine, Leon has caved and is helping Sam and Jeff practice getting the kids in and out of bunker gear. A second grader trips on the long pants and topples over, still giggling, and Buff licks her face. Connor despairs. “You know,” Jack muses, “there’s a reason that when people say ‘fuck the firefighters,’ it’s usually prefaced with a ‘please, may I.’” 

“Prefaced, that’s a ten-cent word coming from you,” Connor says.     

 “Just saying,” Jack says, leaning towards him. “You can slide down my pole anytime.” 

“Gross,” Connor scoffs. “We’re in public. And there are  _children_  here.” 

“They’re all over by the engine, McDavid. Lighten up.” 

“I have the power to arrest you for indecent exposure, you know,” Connor says.  

“I’m not exposing anything,” Jack says, and then winks at him, “yet. I don’t have a shift tonight, by the way. Just in case you want to come over and conduct a strip search, or something.” 

… 

Jack has an actual tattoo of the fire station crest on his shoulder blade, which. Is not the only reason that Connor likes to bite him there, when he’s fucking into him from behind.  

But it’s up there.  

“Did you know,” Connor says, once they’ve rolled apart. A non sequiter, but what else is he going to say? Good job? “You went viral today. I mean. On Facebook, so not super-viral, but still.” 

“Why?” Jack says. Not that Connor’s Facebook stalked him, or anything, but he does know that Jack probably hasn’t used his account in three years. Connor pretty much only uses his to see pictures of his niece, so he finds it a little galling that his own brother shared the picture of Jack in his T-shirt and suspenders that the fire station posted, when he was kneeling next to a beaming little girl wearing his helmet and bunker jacket, Buff’s tongue lolling out of his mouth in the corner of the frame.  

“I don’t know,” Connor lies. “I guess Career Day is pretty much the only time that you guys do any real work, so. That’s pretty notable.” 

Jack doesn’t even react to the jab, just rolls over. “I love Career Day,” he says. “I wanted to be a firefighter ever since I was little, you know? I just like seeing the kids get excited about it, still. It’s fun.” 

“I wanted to be a doctor,” Connor blurts, and he can see Jack grin out of the corner of his eye. “Shut up,” he says, semi-automatically.  

“You would have been called Dr. McDreamy at least five times a day,” he says.  

“That’s why I became a police officer,” Connor says, drily.  

“Really?” Jack leans up on an elbow. He actually looks interested, which is... worrying, maybe.  

“No,” Connor says, slowly. “I wanted to help people, and I like the puzzle part of it, solving crimes. And... You’re going to laugh.” 

“I won’t.” 

“I don’t like blood,” Connor blurts. “So the doctor thing seemed like it probably wasn’t going to work out.” Jack, to his credit, doesn’t laugh. His mouth twitches a little, but. He doesn’t laugh.  

“Understandable,” he says, after a minute. Connor slaps him across the belly, but, like. Gently. “What?” Jack says, and flops back down. “Nobody  _likes_ blood. Plus, you know about my weird CPR thing, and I’m a paramedic, so. Secret’s safe with me.” 

Connor looks at the ceiling for a long moment, then rolls towards Jack. “Did you actually deliver a baby, or was that just for the kids?” 

“No, that happened,” Jack says, smiling a little. “She named it after me, too. Sort of.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“The kid’s name is Jaqueline, and I can prove it,” Jack says, “I’m friends with her mom on Facebook.” He grins, and then rolls into Connor, so fast that Connor doesn’t react until his wrists are already pinned. “You would have hated it, McDreamy. Blood everywhere. Screaming. Babies flying.” 

“Shut up.” Connor pushes against Jack’s wrists, shivers when he can’t break free. “I don’t know why I like you.” 

“You don’t like me,” Jack says, voice going tight in a way that Connor doesn’t know how to read. Connor’s getting hard again against Jack’s ass where he’s straddling Connor, and at this point he doesn’t even try to hide it. “You didn’t like me starting when we fucked for the first time, which, for the record, is opposite of how it normally goes, because you seemed to like me well enough to come home with me.” 

“You deceived me,” Connor protests weakly, “you never told me you were a firefighter.” 

“You didn’t figure out that maybe the guy that your old friend Sam from college—Sam the firefighter—you didn’t figure that the guy he brought with him to the bar might possibly be one as well?” Jack’s fingers flex against Connor’s wrists, and he grinds back against Connor, subtle enough that it might not be intentional.  

“Didn’t figure you’d be gutsy enough to waltz into a cop bar,” Connor breathes, and hitches his hips up. “Then I saw that goddamn tattoo on your shoulder.” 

“Yeah, but you wanted it, didn’t you,” Jack tells him. “Let it happen anyway. And now, what? Now the dick’s too good to quit it?” 

“You wish,” Connor says, and Jack’s grinning at him, cocky, but he folds in when Connor pulls at him, melts into the kiss.  

“Want me to prove it?” Jack breathes against him.  

He always shudders, when Connor pulls at the hair on the nape of his neck. Connor does it now, because he likes the way it feels to make Jack react like that. “You can try,” he says.  

… 

It’s a bad call, Connor can already tell. There’s always something about the way they feel—maybe it’s the ambulance racing in the opposite direction or the chaos at the scene, or maybe it’s just the feeling in the pit of his belly. They don’t get many actual fire calls, which might be part of it, too.  

Also, when he and Leon approach the command station, it’s not Jack who deigns to speak to them, which is more off-putting than Connor would care to admit.  

“Where’s Eichel?” he blurts, when Sam comes over. Connor has known him since college, and he’s never seen Sam look this run down before. 

“Don’t get into it with him,” he says tiredly, “not tonight.” 

“I wouldn’t,” Connor protests, ignoring Leon’s glance.  

“We’ve almost got the scene cleared,” Sam says, “the boys are doing a last walkthrough now. It looks like a kitchen fire, but it’s worth checking into.” 

“Any casualties?” Leon asks, pen poised over his notebook.  

“Nobody dead,” Sam says, “at least not yet. There was a girl in the next apartment over. About twelve. Mom thought she was with dad, dad thought she was with mom, and neither realized until they were out of the building. Jack carried her out. She was still breathing and she’s on her way to the hospital, but she was in rough shape. Probably too soon to tell.” 

Leon’s scribbling, and Connor asks, fake casually, “did Jack ride along to the hospital?” 

“No,” Sam says, slowly, “the EMTs finally got him to hold still long enough to get an oxygen mask on him, he’s over by that ambulance. But he’s had a rough night, and you know how he is about kids, so just. Go easy on him, Connor, okay?” 

“Yeah, of course,” Connor says, and he can see Jack, now, still in his helmet, gesturing at the slender woman holding a mask to his face. It’s been a while since Connor had medical training, but he’s guessing that taking oxygen is not a great sign. “I’ll get a statement.” 

Leon clears his throat. “Maybe I should go,” he says, exchanging a significant look with Sam.  

“I’m fine, Jesus, I’ll be nice to him,” Connor says. “Plus, you’ve already started with Sam.” 

He takes off before Sam or Leon can say anything else. He’s thinking, mostly, that he doesn’t even have Jack’s phone number—and why would he, really, because he always knows which nights Jack is off and he mostly just shows up at his door and goes away if nobody answers. But. It would also make sending him a text, even an  _are you okay_ text, pretty difficult.  

And it’s not like he can ask, of course. For all that he gets teased for being the only guy at the precinct who doesn't understand that the fire department rivalry ‘isn’t a real thing, Connor,’ there’s enough division between the departments that it wouldn’t exactly go over well if people found out at this point about his— 

Well. Not relationship, obviously. Not friendship. His whatever, with Jack. Their mutually-requited hate fucking, or whatever it is. He’s pretty sure that even Sam doesn’t know about them hooking up, and he was there the night that they met out of uniform.  

Whatever, because the point is, if Connor just sees him now, when Jack’s involuntarily stationary because of the oxygen mask, he doesn’t have to worry about this ever again. Because he can make sure Jack isn’t going to die, and then go to his house on Tuesday like he’d always planned to.  

“Hey,” Connor says. Jack says something muffled, and then glares at the woman making him hold the mask to his face.  

“Keep it on, Captain,” she says, in a tone that tells Connor that she’s dealt with this particular situation before.  

“How are you feeling,” Connor says, lamely, and then realizes that he probably can’t answer. “How is he doing?” he asks the woman, which just makes Jack mumble something angry again.  

“He’ll be fine,” she says, “Just wanted to get his oxygen levels back up before we sent him home.” 

“I’m already fine, Jesus,” Jack says finally, tearing the mask off. “Can we be done here?” 

The woman raises her eyebrows, then finally says, “Fine, if you want to take the prerogative to act against my medical advice, you can return to the scene. But you know the drill. You start feeling any worse—" 

“Report directly back, I know. Thanks, Jen.” 

“So you’re fine,” Connor confirms, and Jack rolls his eyes. Clearly, he’s not feeling too badly. 

“I’m fine, it was an overreaction.” 

“To be fair, you did run into a burning building.” 

“To be fair,” Jack retorts drily, and pulls his helmet off. His curls are matted and sweaty looking and there’s a clean line across his forehead where the band of the helmet kept off the soot that coats the rest of his face. He looks exhausted, no matter what he told the paramedic. “It’s sort of in my job description.” 

“Still,” Connor says. “I heard about the girl.” 

Jack’s face shutters immediately, cold and business-like. “I have to get back to my men,” he says. “If you need an incident report, it’s back at the command center, and Sam’s probably a better place to start.” 

“Jack—” Connor starts, but Jack jams his helmet back on, stands up.  

“Thanks for your help, detective,” he says.  

… 

“Hey,” Connor says softly, and Jack twitches a little—not asleep, yet, but almost there. Connor doubts that either of them has gotten much rest since last night. “The fire from last night. We’re going to rule it accidental.” 

“Yeah,” Jack says, and rolls over, away from him. He’s so pale that there are pink lines down his back from Connor’s fingers. Connor doesn’t remember scratching him, but the way that Jack just fucked him it’s not surprising that he did. “Just some dummy trying to fight a grease fire with water.” 

“Especially since there were no casualties,” Connor responds carefully.  

Just like he thought it would, that makes Jack roll back over to face him, eyes wide. 

“We got a call from the hospital this afternoon,” Connor says. “That girl, she’s going to be okay. They’re going to keep her in for a while, but they’re expecting her to make it.” 

“Good,” Jack says, and there’s something strange in his voice. “I mean. Not that she’s in the hospital, obviously, but. That’s good.” 

Connor hums. They don’t talk shop, normally. In fact, they don’t talk at all, normally, and it feels a little strange, but he was the one who brought it up so it seems like maybe he should commit. “They said she inhaled a lot of smoke, but some guy dragged her out just in time. So. That was good, I guess.” 

“Some guy,” Jack says, but he’s looser now. “Some brave, handsome, strong—” 

“Yeah, some stupid guy, running into a burning building.” 

“You’re losing your touch, McDreamy,” Jack says. “You used that one already, today.” 

“Technically, yesterday.” 

“Still. What’s got you so shook up about it? It’s right there in the name, you know: firefighter.” 

“You’re gonna laugh.” 

“Try me,” Jack says, and he looms over Connor, a little, when he pushes up on an elbow, but his face is soft. 

Well. As soft as it ever is. 

“I don’t like fire,” Connor blurts, and then flushes when Jack does burst out laughing. “Stop it, you know that you’re a crazy motherfucker for doing what you do. You’re proud of it.” 

“Sure,” Jack says, and to his credit, he sobers up quickly. “But that doesn’t mean I like it. Nobody likes fire, any more than anybody likes blood. But that’s part of it, right? Somebody has to do it.” 

“I guess,” Connor says, grudgingly.  

“You finally admitting that my job is hard?” Jack asks, grinning now. 

“You have your moments,” Connor admits. “Still, some of us get shot at all day.” 

“All day,” Jack scoffs, “you’re a detective. You take notes all day.” 

“Finally, you admit that you know I’m a detective and not a traffic cop,” Connor says, smug.  

“I’ve known,” Jack says, and it takes Connor off guard when he reaches out, tugs at the ends of Connor’s hair. It is, admittedly, getting longer than he’s worn it in a while. “Kind of hard to miss, with how seriously you take this plain clothes thing, getting all shaggy.”  

Connor shivers a little, and he tries to hide it but he can see from Jack’s face that he fails. “Plus,” Jack continues, “they did, like, a fucking GQ spread in the local paper when you made detective, practically. Youngest in city history, or whatever.” 

“Or whatever,” Connor echoes. He’s a little flustered, partly because he’s pretty sure that he made detective before Jack ever met him off the job. Jack’s face is very close to his, and for just a second he has an insane urge to lean in and kiss him, but they’re not even fucking and he’s pretty sure it’s just because Jack keeps pulling on his hair. “Hey, some of us have to work tomorrow, so if you’re not coming then I’m going to get going.” 

“Alright, hotshot,” Jack says, and then he does surge in to kiss Connor, hard and fast, but it’s only because it’s obvious where things are going at this point, probably. “I’ll let you go home and get your beauty rest, after we’re done here. I’ll even do all the work.” 

… 

Connor’s driving home from work after a particularly grueling shift when some kid rear-ends him at a red light.  

He’s been in car accidents before, but he always forgets exactly how it feels: the pure shock of it, the crunching sound of his car and the dead silence that follows.  

“Fuck,” he says, and throws his car into park and his hazards on.  

The other driver is a teenage girl, clearly new behind the wheel and scared shitless, but otherwise unharmed. Somehow he doesn’t think that telling her that he’s a cop is going to help with the situation, even as she makes a semi-hysterical call to 9-1-1.  

Sure enough, an engine comes screaming down the side street they’ve turned off five minutes after the call, parking at an angle to block off traffic.  

“Goddamnit,” Connor mutters, as Jack fucking Eichel hops down and strides over. 

“Well, well, well, Officer,” he says. From the corner of his eye, Connor can see Jeff approaching the girl, Sam examining what’s left of the hood of her car. “Fender bender?” 

“I could have told you this wasn’t a fire call,” Connor sighs.  

“But we brought the jaws of life,” he says gravely. 

“That seems excessive.” The damage to the rear end of his car is cosmetic, probably, and he gets a stipend for it anyway.  

“The kiss of life, then,” Jack says, smirking a little. “We’re a full-service operation.” 

“I don’t need that, either,” Connor says, flushing, “so I guess that makes you a no service operation.”  

Jack’s face drops, just for a moment. “Better safe than sorry,” he says, suddenly business-like. But then, maybe not so surprising after all. This is his job. He does this dozens of times a day, and he probably doesn’t care that this accident involves Connor at all. It doesn’t make a difference to him. “If there’s damage to her fuel lines, you’ll be glad we’re here. You mind if I ask you a few questions? Any injuries, anything that hurts?” 

“No,” Connor says slowly.  

“Was there anybody else in the car with you at the time of the accident?” 

“No.” 

“Where were you driving?”  

“Home,” Connor says, exasperated. “From work. I don’t have a concussion, Jack. I didn’t hit my head on anything and my airbags didn’t even deploy.” 

“Hey, listen, McDreamy,” Jack says, “one of us wanted to be a doctor for five minutes in second grade, and one of us is a certified paramedic. Also, one of us is on duty, and one of us knows that you don’t have to hit your head on anything to get a concussion. So maybe you should let one of us do their job.” 

“The mere fact that I followed that sentence should tell you that I’m fine,” Connor says. “But whatever. I’ll touch my nose, if you want me to.” 

“I do want you to,” Jack says. “But first, I want you to remember these three words: orange, house, dog. Okay?” 

He’s not smiling, face so intent that Connor has no choice but to say, “sure.” 

“Good,” Jack says. He’s not brusque, just quick and competent, voice gentle. This is his bedside manner, Connor realizes abruptly. As many scenes as they’ve attended together, Connor’s never had it turned towards him. It’s a new side of Jack. “Any sensitivity to light or sound? Did the sirens bother you?” 

“No,” Connor sighs, and lets himself be run through the rest of the standard concussion tests he remembers from the rink-side trainers back when he still played hockey regularly: balance, vision, memory. By the time he’s finished and recited the three words back to Jack, a marked squad car is pulling up. 

“They’re going to want my statement,” Connor says. Officer Larsson is already speaking with Jeff and the other driver.  

“I know how this works,” Jack says, smiling a little. “I’m willing to bet that I’ve been at more traffic accidents than you have, recently. We’re almost done here.” 

“Does that mean that you agree that I don’t have a concussion?” 

“You look alright,” Jack finally concedes. “But sometimes the symptoms don’t present right away. If you start to feel different at all—headaches, dizziness, nausea—you should see someone. Go to a doctor or urgent care center. And you shouldn’t drive, just in case. Do you have someone who can take you home, or even stay with you tonight?” 

“I’m fine, Jack,” Connor says, maybe because he’s too embarrassed to say ‘no.’   

 Jack looks at him, long and hard. He’s not wearing his helmet, but his face is no easier to read than it ever is. All this time, and he’s still a mystery.  

“Just. Call someone, if you need to. Leon, or whoever. Sam. Just. Promise?” 

“Jack—”   

Jack looks away, tucking his penlight back in his pocket and clearing his throat. Then, finally, he meets Connor’s eyes, squinting against the still-flickering lights from the sirens. “I’m serious, McDavid. You shouldn’t be fucking around with shit like this.” 

Jack watches him, mouth tight, but then again, his face is usually tight around Connor. Connor has so much practice reading faces, reading intention and body language and reading what suspects and officers and victims are telling him, or aren’t telling him, or don’t want to tell him. But he can’t read Jack, hasn’t ever been able to, not really.  

“I’m not fucking around,” Connor says, and the words sound strange in his own mouth, the reassurance. Maybe because when Jack’s in uniform, they don’t talk like this. Then again, they probably also have never been out of uniform—at least one of them—and out of the bedroom at the same time, before.  

Finally, Jack shakes his head. “I’ll let the officers take your statement. Pleasure doing business with you, McDavid.”  

… 

Jack looks beat when he opens his door, hair standing up in wild spirals that Connor has the sudden and unwelcome urge to smooth down. He looks surprised, to see Connor there.  

“Oh,” he says, and then, “are you okay?” 

Connor shrugs. “You said I could see a doctor, but I thought. Maybe my friendly neighborhood paramedic, instead.” 

Jack’s face changes in an instant. “Come in,” he says, “are you feeling dizzy? Nauseous? You didn’t drive over, did you?” 

“No, I,” Connor says, even as the door closes behind him and Jack takes his chin, looking urgently into his eyes. “Jack, I’m fine, I'm not feeling any different. Sorry, that was. A joke.” 

“A joke,” Jack says, dropping his face and stepping away. Connor feels cold.  

“It... I’m sorry, Jack. I didn’t mean to scare you like that. I just.” 

 _I just wanted to see you,_ is on the tip of his tongue, but. That’s not something that he’s allowed to say, so he doesn’t. “I didn’t drive here,” he says finally, maybe because Jack does look pissed off at him, arms crossed across his solid chest. “My car’s in the shop, anyway. I took an Uber.” 

“You,” Jack sighs, and then runs his hand over his face, into his hair. “Fine, whatever. Maybe it’s best. You still shouldn’t be alone tonight, so.” 

“Am I staying?” Connor asks, a little surprised. He never has, before. 

“I’m not having sex with you, Connor,” Jack says, and he sounds a little irritated, like Connor should have assumed that would be the case. “Even if you hadn’t just been in a car wreck, and even if I hadn’t just reported to that scene, I just. I’m exhausted, and I just can't tonight. You don’t have to stay, but if that’s all you came here for, then maybe you should just go.” 

Connor breathes, looks at Jack’s face. “I’ll stay,” he says, finally. “If you don’t—if you’re sure that you don’t mind having me.”  

“Okay,” Jack says. He’s wearing an old shirt that Connor’s never seen, with some high school hockey team’s logo on the chest, looking worn and tired and pale. “I’ll make up the couch, but the sheets on the bed are clean, so you should be fine there.” 

He turns to go, and Connor reaches out, takes his arm. “Jack,” he half-laughs, but Jack’s face doesn’t change, still drawn. “I’m not going to—I'll sleep on the couch, if you don’t want to share. It’s your house. I didn’t even ask before coming over.” 

“I don’t mind,” Jack says, finally. “I don’t mind you coming here. I don’t mind sharing, either, but I know that’s not what you want, so.” 

Connor’s fingers spasm, a little oddly, out of his control. _You don’t know what I want,_ is what he’s thinking. But. “I don’t mind,” he says.  

… 

Jack’s side of the bed is empty and cold, when Connor rolls over. He still feels—okay, mostly, but a little stiff in places that he didn’t expect. Jack had woken him up in the night once or twice, gentle hand on his cheek. Connor doesn’t remember what Jack asked him, now, but he also has no doubt that he would have been hustled into the E.R. if Jack was really concerned about him, so he must have finally accepted that the worst thing that’s wrong with Connor is a dented rear fender and a growing bruise across his chest where the seatbelt locked up.  

He’s in the kitchen, when Connor pads in, cooking something. There’s coffee in the pot, so Connor makes a beeline for it, poking through the mugs until he finds one that didn’t get commandeered from the firehouse.  

“Hey,” he says, once he’s gulped down a mouthful.  

Jack grunts at him. He’s got circles under his eyes, and Connor realizes all at once that he probably didn’t sleep much last night, if he was standing watch over Connor the whole time.  

“You’re not going to ask me who the president is, or anything? Make me stand on one foot with my eyes closed?” Connor teases, once the silence stretches on for an uncomfortable moment.  

“I think you’re fine,” Jack says, tonelessly, and then glances over, concedes, “how do you feel?” 

“Fine,” Connor agrees. “How do you feel? You look... exhausted.” 

“Fine,” Jack echoes. “You want some hash browns? I can throw some on.” 

“No, this is. It looks great. Thanks.” 

“Sure,” Jack says, and slides him a plate where he’s perched on a stool at the bar top. Jack still won’t meet his gaze, standing across the counter. He digs into his eggs a little mechanically, so Connor follows his lead. 

“Hey, uh,” he says, finally. “Since we didn’t get a chance last night, I thought maybe after breakfast, we could—” 

“What are we doing, Connor,” Jack interrupts. He’s cleared his plate already, probably used to scarfing down food before a call, and he drops his head into his hands, elbows on the counter. Connor’s seen him in so many different situations, even at high-pressure calls, but he’s never seen Jack so... weary.  

“What?” He blurts, and pushes his own plate aside. “I don’t... what do you mean?” 

“I... Jesus Christ, I just. I don’t know. Forget it, okay?” 

He drops his plate in the sink, reaches across for Connor’s, too, but Connor catches his wrist, holds him there. “I don’t want to forget it, Jack. What did you mean?” 

“I just mean.” Jack flexes his fist until Connor drops it. “Like I said, what are we doing? You don’t even like me, and I get the... the sex thing, or whatever, but. You stayed the night, and we didn’t even sleep together, and I know that was my choice or whatever, but. You stayed. So.” 

“I do—you always say that, but I do like you,” Connor says, and maybe that’s not the part of that statement that he should be focused on, but. He does like Jack—his humor, his bluntness, the way he treats Connor like anybody else at a scene and doesn’t fawn the way some of the uniformed officers do. He likes the way that Jack acts when they’re alone, the edges of him and the way that he’s soft when he thinks Connor won’t notice. The way he stroked Connor’s hair last night as he was falling back asleep after one of Jack’s check-ins.  

“Bullshit.” 

“No,” Connor protests, “you don’t like me, Jack, and you never did.” 

“Bullshit!” Jack repeats, laughing a little, but not like he finds anything funny. “I was the one who took you home, remember? After weeks and months of Sam talking about nothing but his friend Connor, from college, who is so smart and so talented and who is the youngest detective ever, I even went in expecting to hate you a little, and I fucking didn’t, not until you found out what I did and, like, freaked the fuck out. Started acting like you were so much better than me at scenes, talking to me like I was your subordinate, treating me and my company like second best.”  

“That’s not—” Connor starts, but Jack’s looking flushed and irritated, getting rolling now, maybe because they’re back on familiar ground, sniping at each other.  

“So yeah, after that I wasn’t thrilled when you showed back up at my door expecting me to roll over for you, be at your beck and call when you wanted a piece of ass. But that was, like. What. A year ago? I’m over that. I moved on and accepted that you were just a prick that night, and maybe I shouldn’t like you, but. I do. And that’s why I just need to know, okay? I just need to know what we’re doing. Because—” 

He breaks the sentence in half, looks at the ground. “Because,” Connor prods, and then when he doesn’t answer, “listen, I never meant to, like. Jesus Christ. Yes, I was shocked when I found out that you worked for the fire department, okay? I admit that I reacted badly. But it wasn’t like. I don’t have a thing against firefighters, Jack. We just work together so often, it felt like a bad idea, and then I rolled up at a scene the next weekend and you were there and I couldn’t stop thinking about... so it was a bad idea, and I know I probably said some shit, but you can’t act like I'm the only one who said shit, you didn’t exactly smooth things over.” 

“I know, okay?” 

“But I. I came back. Even though I told myself a million times that I shouldn’t. And you answered the door, and even though you were fucking pissed off with me, you let me in. And. I don’t know—it just never stopped, I guess. Because I never wanted it to, but you didn’t, either.” 

“Even after I kicked your ass in that hockey game?” Jack asks. He looks serious, still, but there’s something at the corner of his mouth like he’s trying not to smile.  

“You didn’t—you jumped me, for no reason—” 

“You tripped me,” Jack protests. 

“Because you boarded me!” 

“Because you slashed me!” 

“Because you—listen, this is stupid,” Connor says. “Just. I’ve never had an issue with you, Jack.” 

“That’s fine,” Jack says, sobering up again. “But. That doesn’t really answer my question.” 

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” Connor admits. “I don’t... I don’t know.” 

“Me either.” Jack says softly, looking away. “But I don’t think I can do it anymore.” 

“Do what?” Connor says, and he’s pretty sure the blood is draining from his face, because his cheeks feel a little numb and his palms are sweating, suddenly. 

“I don’t know!” Jack says, frustrated, gesturing between them, “Whatever this is, Connor! Hate-fucking every other day and then seeing each other at work and pretending that we’re not, and then maybe we’re really not hate-fucking anymore but we’re still fucking and we still can’t tell anybody and we still see each other at work, and then I get fucking called out to a scene and it’s you and I still can’t act like anything is happening and then you, like, show up here, and for what? Because you don’t not-like me? I’m just. I’m exhausted and I'm confused and. I just can’t.” 

“Well,” Connor says, and there’s something stinging in his throat and it feels more like he’s getting dumped than he expected it to. “I know it’s been. Messy.” 

“It’s. Yeah,” Jack says. 

“Listen, I’m,” Connor blurts. His coffee mug seems like an easier place to stare than Jack’s face, so he watches the liquid inside when he says. “I’m sorry, that I imposed on you last night.” 

“You didn’t impose,” Jack sighs, voice muffled like maybe he has his face in his hands again. “I just. I know it was a minor wreck, okay, but I report to a lot of accidents and I see shit go down every day, and things don’t always. They don’t always stay minor. So I got a little... I don’t know. Overprotective, maybe.” 

“You said I shouldn’t be alone,” Connor says, “and I could have called Leon or Sam, like you said, or anyone, really, but. The first person I thought of was you. And not because of the sex that we didn’t have.” 

“Because you knew I know CPR?” Jack says, flatly, but he might be joking.  

“Because I wanted to be with you,” Connor blurts, gripping the mug tighter. “I know as well as you do that it isn’t... you know, what we do. But that’s the truth. And I'm as sick of this... this situation as you seem to be, but I didn’t want to say anything because...” 

“Because?” 

“Because I thought this might happen!” Connor says, looking up, “because I thought if we stopped pretending like this wasn’t anything real, then things might fall apart and you might... whatever. I can’t say break up, obviously. I thought you might do this, or that I should do this, break things off, and I didn’t want to. Honestly, I still don’t.” 

“You don’t?” Jack says softly, and Connor hates that Jack doesn’t believe him, but he understands why, because he barely believes it himself, that it might... work. 

“I know it can’t be like this anymore,” he tries, because the alternative—losing this, as fucking complicated as it is, losing Jack—is suddenly looking like a much worse option. “But what if it was different?” 

“If it was different,” Jack says, “that would be, like. What. A relationship?” 

Connor could reach out and touch him, where his forearms are folded on the counter. So. He does, just brushes him with a fingertip. Jack doesn’t pull back. 

“It would be like, the same, probably,” Connor admits. He thought, mostly, on the Uber ride over yesterday, about how much time he’s been spending with Jack recently. Most nights, when one of them wasn’t on shift. “Except we actually talk about the fact that we like each other and stop pretending otherwise, and maybe occasionally do things that aren’t sex.” 

“That sounds a lot like a relationship,” Jack says, turning his palm up, and the pads of their fingertips brush, and it’s so little but it feels like. It feels like more. 

“Maybe,” Connor concedes. “But. It doesn’t have to be anything you don’t want it to be.” 

“Relationship is a very big word,” Jack says, but he’s smiling a little, ducking his face as if Connor can’t see it, anyway. 

“Gives us room to grow,” Connor says. “We could start slow, if you wanted. In fact, we could start with me taking you to bed.” 

“That doesn’t sound slow,” Jack says. The counter is really too wide for Connor to just lean over and kiss him, but. Connor’s willing to stand up and walk around to Jack. Willing to make the effort. 

“I meant so that you could sleep,” Connor says, but he kisses Jack in a way that implies something very different. “I know you stayed up all night to make sure I didn’t die.” 

“Worth it,” Jack says against Connor’s mouth, as if that should have been obvious. He’s got his arms around Connor’s waist, warm and tight, and Connor accepts that he may never be able to make fun of how much time Jack spends working out, anymore, if he’s going to enjoy it quite this much.  

Also, there’s a chance that Connor should have figured this whole thing out before now. But. Just a small one.  

“Hey, for the record,” Connor says. “There’s nobody that I would want running into a burning building to save me more, Captain. Or, you know. Concussion testing me at a minor traffic scene.” 

“Wow, thanks,” Jack laughs, and grabs at Connor’s ass. There wouldn’t be any harm in getting a quickie in before they nap, probably. “There’s nobody that I would rather have write me a parking ticket, baby.” 

“That’s not...” Connor sighs, but Jack’s laughing at him, into his neck, so he lets it slide. Just this once.  

… 

Whenever Connor pulls up to a scene and sees Engine No. 9, he knows that it’s going to be a long fucking day.  

“If it isn’t my favorite canaries,” Jack calls, as they approach the tape. “Hello, boys.” 

“Hello, Captain,” Leon says, smirking a little. “I’ll start taking statements, shall I?” 

“When can I get started on my scene, Eichel?” Connor says.  

Jack raises his eyebrows, pale against his sooty face. “I think you’ll find it’s still my scene, detective,” he says. “But we’ll turn it over as soon as we can. Empty warehouse, no employees here at the time of the call, so there’s not much for us to do. Plus, I think you’ll find that I’m highly motivated to end my shift on time, tonight.” 

“Is that so?” Connor says, just as Sam calls Jack’s name.  

“Gotta run,” Jack says. “You still cooking tonight?” 

“Yeah. Whenever we get done here.” 

“That’s why I'm highly motivated,” Jack grins, “although, considering how things went last time, it’s probably good that you have an in with the fire department. And a boyfriend who is very familiar with a fire extinguisher. And first aid.” 

“Hey,” Connor says, feigning injury, “you said that we could forget about that.” 

“Believe me, I'm trying to.” 

“Go away, Jack. You have actual work to do, for once.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Jack laughs. “Pleasure as always, McDreamy. Looking forward to working the night shift with you when you’re done here.” 

“Gross,” Connor says lightly, but he leans in a little when he says, “just. Wrap it up, okay? I’ve got someone waiting at home that I’d really like to get back to.” 

“Lucky guy,” Jack shoots over his shoulder as he turns, and. It’s not like there’s much to see under the bunker gear, but Connor watches him go, anyway.  

**Author's Note:**

> I have no apologies. (I have one apology. It is that I wrote this instead of continuing a different fic for which I promise a chapter is forthcoming). I also have no research. This probably resembles in no way, shape or form how actual emergency response works in any country known to man. Whoops. 
> 
> I tried to tag/warn to the best of my abilities and felt that the sex scenes weren't really explicit enough to warrant that rating; however as always, please feel free to let me know if I need to go back and add or change anything. 
> 
> Here's your fun fact for the day: the first idea for this fic was firefighter!Jack and ER doctor!Connor, and I was trying to think about how to get them to interact without seriously injuring someone... and then the more research (haha) I did on firefighters, the more I got into the fire/police rivalry, and a star was born.


End file.
